Page 125 of One Last Shot
He smiled back.
The porch door opened. “Doyle, I need you to get some fresh eggs.” Her mother came out, dressed in her apron, her hair back in a net. Her nearly sixty-five years had barely etched a wrinkle in her face, her hands still strong, her eyes still clear. If Boo could be like anyone, maybe it would be her mother.
Except for the judgment.
Her mother handed Doyle a basket.
He took it and headed off the porch out to the garden area.
Her mother stuck her hands into her pockets. “He’sright, you know.”
Boo frowned. “What?”
She sat on the chair next to Boo. “I think there’s a conversation we never got to finish.”
“I think it’s finished, Mom. You told me what you thought about the show?—”
“No. You told me what you thought I thought. You never let me speak.”
“Your silence spoke volumes.”
“My silence was pain for what you went through. For the hurt you endured. And my biggest concern wasn’t what happened between you and Blake. It was what you carried away from it.” She reached out and touched Boo’s hand. “I feared that again you’d feel like you didn’t matter. That you were easily forgotten. And that now, Brontë, it was worse—because you could give yourself a reason for that.”
What was this, therapy hour?
She sighed. “Mom, my name is Boo.”
Her mother shook her head. “No. Your name is Brontë. It’s a great name. A beautiful name. A name that means thunder. You were the smallest of my babies. But I knew you’d make an impact.”
Boomer. Aw. Maybe the man knew her better than she thought. But, “Mom, I?—”
“Wait. Still my turn,” her mother said.
Boo closed her mouth.
“I know that you always felt different. You weren’t the student like Austen. Or into sports like your brothers. The minute you returned from that adventure camp in Deep Haven, I knew you wanted a life outside the borders of Duck Lake. A life of adventure and challenge, and maybe a little to prove that you were every bit as capable as your siblings.”
Boo said nothing.
“But in being so capable and not a burden, you’ve also decided that you are on your own. That you have to fight your own battles and bear your own burdens, endure your losses on your own.”
She lifted a shoulder. “If I get lost, it’s on me to find my way back.”
“That’s a lie.”
She frowned.
“The world says that. And yes, we need to take responsibility for our actions, but even in that God says he lifts us out of the darkness. That he is our light and our hope and our salvation. That whatever we’ve done, whatever darkness we find ourselves in, he can set us free.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Mom.” She shook away her tone.
“It means ‘Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’ There are no conditions in that verse. Not—I’ll save you if you prove yourself or if you are strong enough to come to me, or even if you love me enough... Just, I am with you. That’s Jesus running after the lost lamb, just because she needs him.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “What you don’t realize, Brontë, is you are like that shepherd. Going after the lost. Rescuing someone who doesn’t deserve your love. And you know a little what it feels like to be left behind, too. Could be that Jesus is wondering where his little lamb went.”
Doyle had appeared, carrying the basket. “Mom. Your stupid chickens hate me.”
She laughed. “Doyle, they love you.” Standing up, she took the basket from Doyle. Turned again to Boo. “Could be that the person you’ve been trying to rescue all this time is you, Boo. Maybe it’s time to let someone else do the rescuing.” She stood at the door. “As for Oaken Fox, well, Doyle’s right. He’s the idiot.” Her mom winked andwent inside.